


Yellow

by jimnaysium



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Beautiful friendships give me hope, Best Friends, Coldplay, Depression, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I haven't seen season 5 but I've heard things, Kid Fic, Mental Health Issues, Psych Ward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 12:52:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4667213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jimnaysium/pseuds/jimnaysium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Stiles is hospitalised which suspicions of anxiety after his Mother passes away, but his friendship with Scott is beautiful so it's alright.</p><p>[Sort of inspired by 'It's Kind of a Funny Story' by Ned Vizzini]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yellow

**Author's Note:**

> I want to apologise but I loved writing this so...
> 
> I haven't seen Season 5, but I know stuff goes down with my boys, and I'm not emotionally prepared, so I made this to avoid facing up to the truth.

 

> _**“People are screwed up in this world. I'd rather be with someone screwed up and open about it than somebody perfect and ready to explode.”** (Ned Vizzini, It's Kind of a Funny Story) _

 

Most people would tell you depression is like a tumour. They would say it's like a fungus in the linings of your brain, paralysing you with agonisingly slow pace, limb by limb by limb.

But depression is a war. Depression is a war between what you want to be able to do, and what you truly believe yourself able to do. It's a war within your skull where one team plays dirty, tying your ankles and watching you flail. It's vicious and can tear through your entire being in a single night, changing your life forever.

Not everyone fights the war alone, but a good ally is hard to find. People who have never fought it themselves struggle to understand how easily your breath can be stolen by a phantom within your own head. Most are unarmed, and up against a faceless enemy. Not everyone makes it.

Stiles never had that issue. His depression hit him like a truck after his Mum’s death, culminating with a panic attack in the boy’s bathroom. Clutching at the sink with blue lips and trembling fingers, he felt a shift in his brain with a definite _oh._ He was hospitalised for seventy two hours the next day.

If Stiles was to be frank, the idea of the hospital's psych ward had terrified him to tears. He had begged his dad to let him stay home, desperately tried to convince the sheriff he was _fine_. Needless to say he was admitted four hours later with suspicions of an anxiety disorder.

But the ward was nothing like he had expected.

 

* * *

 

His first day Stiles sat alone at lunch, shaking in a corner. Within five minutes, the schizophrenic with a scraggly beard and two different coloured eyes had given the young boy a drawing of a rainbow and smiled warmly.

"Welcome," he had said.

Later that afternoon, the boy with anger issues had challenged Stiles to a game of table football, and laughed graciously when he lost.

The girl who struggled with anorexia had taught him the cup song.

The elderly woman with depression had helped him through her first round of pills.

The seven year old boy with multiple personalities gave Stiles some of the chocolate he had stolen from the chef.

Everyone was so thoughtful, and so considerate, and _so kind_ that Stiles cried that night. He sobbed into his pillow from the utter overwhelming _joy_ and _guilt_ and _sadness_. His roommate assumed he was grieving being institutionalised but that wasn't it. He was just feeling everything all at once, and he was sure his chest was going to burst.

Those seventy two hours were some of the most enlightening of Stiles’ life though. He lost his faith in the ability to label someone with eleven letters, four syllables, two words and the phrase _mentally ill_.

 

* * *

 

 

He walked out of the psych ward with a brand new perspective, a hospital band around his wrist and a diagnosis of depression and anxiety under his arm.

Judging from Stiles’ own initial prejudices, he did not expect an extensive array of support when he left the psych ward, had even prepared himself for the worst.

But when he walked out, the sheriff and Melissa was there and next to them was _Scott_.

He had a crumpled box of chocolates, squeezing the life out of them with one hand and chewing his nails on the other, a tell-tale sign of his anxiety. His eyebrows were bunched over stormy dark brown eyes and dark shadows, but when he saw Stiles, his face lit up.

Stiles felt her heart swell with affection and before he had registered what he was doing, he was flinging himself into Scott’s arms. He smelt like he always did, of ink and _warm_.

"Hey," Scott said in his gentle voice that made Stiles want to cry, and he tightened his hold on him.

Stiles just whispered back, "I'm sorry."

"No," was all Scott said. "You don’t have to be sorry.”

Then Stiles really did cry.

The hospital gave him pills, but they did more to blur the anxiety than actually rid him of it. It was like he was analysing his misery through a smudged microscope.

Of course there were good days, where Stiles would smile and laugh without trying to make his Dad and Scott feel better, just because he _wanted to_ and Scott's joke was _funny_.

But there were also bad days when his bones turned to cement and he couldn't find the energy to breathe, let alone get out of bed.

Surprisingly, Scott was there every step of the way.

Stiles hit a bad patch about two years after being released from the hospital. He stayed in bed for two months, barely eating, barely showering, barely conscious. Scott was there every day after school, and most nights.

The night Stiles would remember the most was a Monday. Scott sat next to him all night, eyes wide in fear, absolutely _exhausted_ and running on pure adrenaline. But he stayed, his fingers laced with Stiles, just sitting cross legged next to his best friend’s bed. Softly, in a voice that reminded Stiles of feathers and waves lapping the shore, Scott sang to him.

_Look at the stars_

_Look how they shine for you_

_And everything you do_

_And they were all yellow too_

And Stiles knew that everything was going to be okay, because he wasn't fighting the war alone. He had the best general to ever exist by his side, and Scott wasn't going anywhere soon.

**Author's Note:**

> Stay groovy, everyone.


End file.
